


(run)

by thisisapaige



Series: Thisisapaige's Suptober20 Collection [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Creepy, Dark, Dean Winchester Saves Castiel, Happy Ending, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Protective Dean Winchester, Rated for horror themes and blood, Suptober 2020 (Supernatural), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisapaige/pseuds/thisisapaige
Summary: (For Suptober20. Day 6 Prompt: Mask.)⁂“Forgive me.” The robes fluttered then a hand appeared, holding a rune-engraved knife. It glowed faintly with angelic power. “But, in order to be reborn--in order to regain my body-- I need the blood of the angel who has earned the love of a human.”[...]"You must be mistaken,” Castiel said, the words raw and ragged as he watched his blood fall, “he doesn’t love me back.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Thisisapaige's Suptober20 Collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950343
Comments: 12
Kudos: 158





	(run)

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's spooky season and I'm feeling the Halloween spirit, I wanted to try my hand at a horror piece. It was an interesting exercise.
> 
>  **Warning** for blood, torture, and Cas being angelnapped once again.
> 
> Need a friend? [Here's my Tumblr if you wanna chat!](https://thisisapaige.tumblr.com/)

Run.

Dean’s feet pounded on the pavement. 

One, two. One, two. 

He had to keep going.

One, two. One, two.

His heart hammed against his ribcage. His chest burned. His muscles ached. 

He had to keep going. 

One, two. One, two.

Because, if he didn’t get there in time, if what Rowena said was true, then--

One, two. One, two. 

He had to keep going. 

Run.

⁂

Castiel groaned. Darkness swam before his vision as he observed the empty, concrete grey room. Only the tips of his toes touched the ground. When he tried to lower his arms from above his head, chains rattled and manacles dug into his wrists. No matter how much he struggled, the restraints held tight. The Enochian magic kept him locked, bound, weak. A constant noise disrupted the silent room.

Drip, drip, drip.

A hidden door creaked open. A figure, wreathed in the soft yellow light beyond the door, entered the room. The figure floated toward Castiel, long black robes billowing in an unseen wind. Castiel could not see his captor’s face. 

The figure wore a mask, stark white with two curved horns curling towards the ceiling like a distorted, demonic stag. Bright blue lines, outlining countless symbols of power and magic, covered the smooth surface. 

Whoever-- or whatever-- wore the mask was a powerful creature, indeed. 

“You have awakened,” the figure said, the voice distorted and of indeterminate gender. “Good.” 

Castiel wanted to speak. Castiel wanted to ask questions. Castiel wanted to distract the figure while he formulated an escape plan. However, when he opened his mouth, he tasted blood. Castiel choked on it. A line of red escaped from the corner of his mouth and fell onto the floor. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

The figure flowed closer to Castiel. The divots which marked the mask’s eyes showed nothing of what was underneath but Castiel felt the intensity of the gaze. A pallid hand with long bony fingers materialized from under the robes. The hand softly, almost tenderly, wiped the blood from Castiel’s mouth. 

“I am sorry,” the figure said. Castiel almost believed it. “But it must be done. It has to be you. This is the only way for me to become whole.”

Castiel coughed. He coughed and coughed until his throat was red and raw. He spat blood at the figure’s feet. The mask shook from side to side, almost in sympathy. 

“Forgive me.” The robes fluttered then a hand appeared, holding a rune-engraved knife. It glowed faintly with angelic power. “But, in order to be reborn-- in order to regain my body-- I need the blood of the angel who has earned the love of a human.”

The concrete walls absorbed the words. Castiel raised his heavy head and stared into the stag’s sightless eyes, silent.

The knife shone as it cut his skin. His grace cried out. 

Drip, drip, drip.

“You must be mistaken,” Castiel said, the words raw and ragged as he watched his blood fall, “he doesn’t love me back.”

⁂

One, two. One, two.

Dean had been running for what felt like hours. He wished he hadn't crashed his stolen car. He wished he had water. He wished he took better care of his heart. He had to be getting closer. He had to. 

Not again. Not like this. Dean couldn’t lose Cas like this. He couldn’t lose him at all. 

Dean slowed, gasping for breath. He rested his hands on his knees and sucked in the cool night air. He had to trust Rowena and Sam. He had to trust that they could complete the spell. He had to trust that he would make it in time. 

He had to keep going. 

One, two. One, two.

Run.

⁂

“Really?” The mask quivered. “Then why does his soul cry out for you? Why can I feel him coming this way?”

Castiel had no answer. 

The knife cut.

Drip, drip, drip.

⁂

The wooden door splintered at the force of Dean’s kick. He burst into the house, expecting to see something horrible. 

It was just a house. 

He pulled out his gun and stalked through the rooms. A normal living room. A standard kitchen. An almost nice dining room. 

Nothing. No Cas. Nothing. 

It was just a house. 

Dean didn’t let his guard down. Cas had to be here. He had to be. 

He found the basement, dark and appropriately dank. If Dean knew monsters, and he did, that was where the evil would happen. He climbed down the slick concrete stairs. 

One, two. One, two.

Run.

⁂

The figure did not move, did not speak. The stag watched, watched as Castiel's grace shone from his wounds, watched as Castiel’s blood ran down to the floor.

Castiel could no longer hold his head up. He swung from his wrists; the toes of his shoes dragged across the floor and smeared the blood on the grey concrete. His broken skin bled. Blood trailed down his arms.

Drip, drip, drip. 

“What are you waiting for?” Castiel’s question was faint.

“Ritual takes time. And…” The figure faced the door, the movement reminiscent of the blowing wind. 

From behind the hidden door, the thump, thump, thump, of a battering ram shook the room. The noise grew insistent, faster and faster, until the door buckled. With a loud boom, the door clattered to the ground. The force of the impact fluttered the figure’s robes. 

“Cas!”

Castiel tried to raise his head at the familiar growl but it was so heavy. It was so heavy and yet so light. 

Below him was a pool of blood. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

⁂

Dean didn’t see the masked freak at first. All he saw was Cas, hanging from the ceiling, blood turning his white shirt red and dripping onto the floor. 

There was a lot of blood. 

He pointed his gun at the robed figure. It had a body. He could shoot it. 

He hoped. 

The stag mask moved from side to side. Dean swore those creepy-ass eyes mocked him. 

“Let him go,” Dean said.

The figure shifted until Cas was obscured by black robes. “You should know that I do not have a full corporal form. Shoot me and it will pass through me.”

And right into Cas. The threat was clear. 

“Call off your ritual or whatever.” Dean had to stall. He had to make it to midnight. Cas had to make it to midnight. “I caught you.”

“No,” the figure said. “I caught you.”

The robes billowed. A wind howled, knocking Dean to the hard floor. His gun clattered to the ground. Dean couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was stare at the blood pooling at Cas’s feet. Dean tried to reach out to Cas, tried to let him know, tried to find the breath to tell him. 

One, two. One, two. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Dean had to make it to midnight. Cas had to make it to midnight. They had to make it to midnight. 

“Do you still deny this?” the figure asked Cas. “Look at how he tries. Look at how he cares for you.”

Cas didn’t reply. Dean didn’t think he could. That was a lot of blood loss, even for an angel. Dean reached out. He had to make it. He had to make it to midnight.

He couldn’t lose Cas.

“Let him go,” Dean whispered, “please just let him go. Keep me. Do whatever you want. Just--”

The figure made a sound much like a hissing stream. “I wish I could. I really do. But I must be reborn.” 

“Why him?”

“Because you love him.”

Dean couldn’t breathe. Dean couldn’t move. He tried. He tried so hard to move.

Run.

He had to run.

He had to keep going. 

One, two. One, two.

Drip, drip, drip. 

“There is one angel in all creation who has earned the love of a human,” the figure said. “It’s a shame he will never know he has.”

The robes flowed by Dean. When Dean tried to grab them, his fingers passed right through. Dean gasped short shallow breaths, trying to find the strength to raise his head. 

When he did, he saw long skeletal fingers caressing Cas’s pale, bloodless cheek. 

Cas jerked his head back and Dean heard a sharp intake of breath. 

Cas was awake. He was alive. He could make it to midnight. 

The realization gave Dean the strength to move. He flattened his palms on the hard floor, desperately trying to convince himself that the sticky substance on his hands was something other than Cas’s blood, and pushed himself on his knees. Focused on Cas, the figure did not notice. Slowly, carefully, Dean stood. He checked his watch. He had to trust in Rowena and Sam. 

“Hey.” Dean swayed back and forth, determined to stay on his feet. “It’s midnight.”

Purple light lit Dean from within. Starting from his heart, the light swirled around Dean’s body and settled in his fingertips. He raised his hands, cupping them before his chest. Above his palms, the light became a sphere of concentrated magic power. 

The figure turned around. With a dry, brittle snap, the mask cracked. From that crack, wisps of black smoke escaped and curled around the horns. 

Dean wanted an appropriate one-liner but he was too damn exhausted. He raised the sphere of purple light and hurled it at the figure. 

No scream. No wind. No dramatic flash of light. One second, there was a figure of rippling robes and the next, there was nothing but a pile of empty cloth and a shattered mask. 

Whatever. It was gone. Good enough for Dean. 

“Cas. Cas!” Dean rushed to Cas’s side. He said the name over and over again, as if, somehow, that would be enough to rouse him, enough to make him open his eyes. Dean took Cas’s face between his hands. Shit. Cas was cold. “Hey, hey, Cas. C’mon, buddy, wake up. Show me those pretty blue eyes.”

“Dean?” Cas head twitched, just slightly. “I am…” He took a shaky breath. “I am tired.”

“I know, buddy, I know,” Dean said. “But you gotta stay awake for me, okay?”

A silver of blue peeked out from behind Cas’s heavy lids. “Okay.”

Dean pat Cas on the cheek. He picked the lock on the handcuffs. When the lock was released, Cas dropped like a stone and Dean's arms were full of angel. The sudden weight, combined with the slick blood on the floor, made Dean slip. They fell. Dean made sure he took the impact. 

“Sorry,” Cas mumbled, his lips brushing Dean’s ear.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said. “Can you heal?”

Cas shook his head. “Strong magic. Need some time.”

“Alright. We’ll get you some help, okay?”

“Okay.”

Securing Cas with one hand, Dean used the other to reach for his phone. With Cas nestled in his chest, Dean dialled Sam’s number. As it rang, Dean carded his fingers through Cas’s hair. 

Dean couldn't lose Cas.

He spoke one word into the phone.

Run.

⁂

Castiel groaned. He squinted at the light. When he tried to sit up, a warm pair of hands assisted him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. The room came into focus: Dean's bedroom. Castiel raised his head and saw Dean watching him from his seat at the foot of the bed.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean said.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s bottom lip quivered. His eyes filled with water. Before Castiel could ask what was wrong, Dean surged forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel.

“ _Never_ do that again, do you hear me?” Dean’s grip tightened. He pressed his lips against Castiel’s temple. “ _Never_.”

“Okay,” Castiel stated, simply.

Dean trembled. He pulled back and placed his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. Dean licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth. Castiel waited. He was content to observe the intricacies of the expressions which crossed Dean’s face. 

Even though he spent the whole time watching, when Dean leaned forward and pressed his lips softly, sweetly, and all too briefly, to Castiel’s, Castiel did not expect it.

“There,” Dean whispered against Castiel’s lips, “now you know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re loved.”


End file.
